Elisabeth Fairchild (6 page)

Hands shaking, Penny laced the leather hobbles about the pony’s hocks. She was not so brave as Felicity, never had been. Well, perhaps once. A mistake, that. Her courage had misled her. She looked forward with feelings of trepidation and misgiving to this encounter with Cupid. It even crossed her mind that it would be best if they did not meet. She could ride home again, visit the falls another day.

Felicity decided the matter for her. By the time the hobbles were tied, she was nowhere to be seen. Penny’s heart lurched. She thought suddenly of her mother. Her feet stumbled into motion.

The sloping path was familiar, slippery where wet, awkward as it wound through tree roots and under low branches. The force revealed itself a little at a time, through the trees, a boil of white, accompanied by the growing noise of moving water: rushing, falling, eternal. Dangerous. Where was Felicity?

She raced through the grove, sunlight blinding her in flashes. There, just ahead, standing too close to the beck, of course, a basket at her feet, a twig in hand, poking at a jug that had been left to cool in an eddy in the swift flowing water.

“Felicity!” she called. “I asked you to wait, to stay well back from the water.”

The child turned with guilty expression, as if startled by her own waywardness.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Someone’s supper. Come away now.”

She obeyed, dejectedly. “I’m hungry,” she said.

“Come then. We shall have a look at the force, first, and then we shall ride to the nearest inn for a bite to eat. Unless you wish to eat first? Come back later?”

She half hoped Felicity would nod. Instead, with an impish smile, the child grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the noisy falls.

The sound wrapped itself around them, loud enough that he did not hear them approach, though Felicity cried out “Pretty!” when they came within sight of the force.

Penny had known he would be there, but was not at all prepared for the sight of him. He stood, as if bewitched, beneathrainbow. It arced through the mist kicked up by a torrent of water that boiled and slid down the hillside, seventy feet or more, water gone milk white it flowed so fast. He stood with his back to them, at the second of two vantage points that overlooked the spectacle, head thrown back, expression rapt. A magical sight: the rainbow, the white water, his awe.

Felicity’s little legs stopped moving. Grip tightening, she stared.

“Have no fear,” Penny drew her onward. “It is only Cupid. He will not bite.”

She thought he would turn--notice them. He did not, stood entranced, fixed as a statue, in his very stillness entrancing.

Cupping hands to mouth, she shouted, “Halloo!”

The sound of rushing water swallowed her cry. He did not respond.

“Did Emma fall from there?” Felicity pointed to the spot where he stood.

“Perhaps.” She considered the matter with a sigh, thoughts of her mother tumbling like the water.

Felicity stared unwaveringly at Valentine’s Cupid. “Will your friend fall?”

Again Penny thought of her mother. She frowned. “I do not think so, dearest. Are you still hungry? Shall we go?”

“Does he know?” she persisted.

“Know what?”

“About Emma?”

“I--I do not know.”

“Will you tell him?”

Such a solemn face the child had when she was worried.

“A grown man knows to be careful on wet rocks, dearest.”

She did not look convinced, her dear little face tender with concern.

Penny sighed. No getting around it. She would have to go and speak to him. Felicity would fret all of the way home if she did not. And if he did fall--well, she, like her father, would never be able to forgive herself.

“You will wait here? And I do mean right here.” Penny knelt, her tone impressing upon the child the seriousness of her instruction. “I will go and tell him. But, you must not budge an inch. The path is very slippery ahead, and I would not have you fall while I go and tell my friend that he must not. Right?”

Felicity, wide-eyed, nodded, eyes locked on the stranger, the troubled look easing from her brow.

Penny went to him, careful of her footing, glancing back over her shoulder now and again to assure herself Felicity stayed put. The child stood like a statue, watching. It was wet this close to the water’s spray, dizzying, the beck rushing, rushing, rushing, in a steep, tumbling race with itself through a narrow chasm of moss green stone and water-bared tree roots. The sound matched that of breath and pulse as she went to him, anxious to return to the child, her gaze and attention divided. The water drew her, sight of him, too, the damp sheen of him, his hair wafting in the breeze stirred by plunging water.

He turned at last, forehead, cheeks and lips misted, a gleam in his eyes. He moved to meet her as she navigated the last of the pathway, his hand clutching her elbow as her shoe skidded on mossy stone.

“You came!” She saw his lips move, all sound drowned by the voice of the force.

He stepped close to hear her response, his hand still at her elbow, head bent close, the look in his eyes soft and bright and slippery, like the moss beneath their feet. “You came.”

She heard him that time, his breath warm on her cheek.

It had been a long time since a gentleman had looked at her as Cupid dd. She stared a moment, marveling, lost in his eyes.

“Yes, I had to . . . I had to . . . ” She wet her lips, mouth gone cottony.

He did not allow her to finish. The gleam in his eyes brightened. The hand at her elbow slid to her waist. He caught her off guard, leaning forward suddenly, his kiss strong--urgent--a match for the force’s rushing fervor.

A kiss to take her breath away. For the length of a sigh, she succumbed to the damp need of his mouth, the answering need of her own.

Good sense returned, and fear. She thought of Val, of Felicity--of Eve.

Pushing roughly at the firm warmth of his chest, she struck his cheek as hard as she might in kid gloves. The bones of her hand ached with the flat-handed strength of it, even as she whirled, saying, “Is this why they call you Cupid?”

Too fast, her move on slippery rock.

“No. Another reason.” The words seemed distant, blurred.

Her hands windmilled, found no ready purchase. She felt herself falling. Like Emma, like mama. Oh God, not like mama, not in front of the child!

Below her, Felicity screamed.

He grabbed the tail of her coat in the last instant, fabric stretching taut, seams straining, threads popping under her arms as her heart leapt into her mouth and the plunge of water beckoned, dizzyingly.

The child gazed up through bare branches, her mouth a rounded O.

With a firm yank Cupid altered her view, pulling her back against his chest with a shoulder-blade jarring thump.

“Not so fast. There is a better way down.”

“Dear God.” The words sighed from her lips, her heartbeat thundered like the water. “She ought not to have seen that.”

“The kissing, or the falling?”

She laughed. A nervous release. “Either.”

His cheek bore the imprint of her hand, faintly pink. She scowled at it. “I do apologize for striking you, and thank you . . .”

“For the kiss?” His eyes twinkled.

“For saving my life.”

“I would rather you thanked me for the former.” His breath on her ear almost as provocative as his lips had been. “I, too, must apologize. I thought you came alone.”

Shaken, she stepped from his arms, with care for her footing this time, her gaze fixed on Felicity, to whom she waved, forcing herself to smile. “That would be as foolish as falling head first into the force,” she shouted over her shoulder.

“Dangerous, am I?” he shouted back.

She turned to look into dizzying eyes. Dangerous. She feared falling into the deep green pools as much as she had Aira Force.

He stepped closer.

“I came to warn you.” She held her ground, wanting him to hear. “Not to fall.”

“Too late,” He leaned closer , laughter at play in his voice, in his eyes. “I fear I have already fallen.”

The suggestion in his voice took her breath away. Like his kiss. Her gaze was drawn to his mouth. She looked away. “Do you read Wordsworth?” she called out to him as she set off.

“Strange fits of passion have I known:” he quoted, hard upon her heels “and I will dare to tell . . .”

She stopped. He almost bowled her over, no choice but to catch her in his arms once more with that same brightness of eye that had led to a kiss.

t" width="But in my lover’s ear alone . . .” he whispered in her ear, the words like the kiss,  firing a dangerous warmth.

“The Somnambulist?” she asked abruptly, pushing from his arms, stepping away.

He shook his head. “Don’t know that one.”

“He tells of a young woman named Emma who fell in love here.”

“Here? Oh?” His voice still held laughter, and the suggestion of something seductive.

“With a gentleman named Sir Egremont.”

“How romantic.”

She shook her head, dared look him in the eyes again. “A tragedy really. He went away to war before they were wed.”

His mouth tightened at mention of war. The light in his eyes diminished. “Did he return?” he asked, jaw tight.

“He did,” she nodded, “to find that in his absence Emma’s mind had come unhinged with worry.”

He frowned.

“She had begun to walk in her sleep, and one of the places she walked was here, where they had spent happy moments.”

His attention was complete, brow furrowed, as if he did not comprehend the implied  connection. She regretted more than ever the imprint of her hand upon his cheek.

“Did she recover?” he asked.

Penny sighed. “Hearing of her altered state, he came looking for her the evening of his return. She was here, above the falls. He called her name, startling her.”

“She fell?” he guessed.

She nodded.

His jaw twitched.

“Broke her neck, and his heart,” she said. “He became a hermit, gave up all his worldly possessions, and lived out the rest of his days in a cave.”

“A good thing I caught you.” he said, and when she looked at him quizzically, the seductive twinkle returned to his eyes. “I do not care for caves.”

Chapter Six

“And I do not care to be kissed by strangers.” She turned her back to him.

“Really?” He cupped her elbow as she stepped over a tree root, leaning close to whisper. “I got the impression otherwise.”

She turned, blue eyes flashing, the ribbon of rushing water perfect backdrop for the fire in her gaze. The air smelled slightly musky: of wet stone, and molding leaves. His mouth tasted of her. He wanted more. He wanted in that instant for her to be the wanton Val claimed, for if she were, he might have her, and soon.

“You are mistaken,” she snapped.

She had not recoiled from his embrace. Her lips had gone deliciously soft beneath his.

“I am, myself, excessively fond of kisses,” he admitted, refusing to catch the contagion of her anger, curious to see her response.

The word excessively widened her eyes, and then, lashes sweeping down to hide her surprise, she walked away.

He stood a moment, admiring the slope of her shoulders, the graceful bend of her waist, the sway of her hips. A trim ankle, she exposed, in lifting her skirts from the wet.

She called back over her shoulder, “Is this a Cupid’s compliment? Do you kiss anything female that comes within arm’s reach?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I am very particula”

“What is your real name?” she demanded without stopping. “I cannot continue to call you Cupid, though Cupid you may consider yourself.”

“Alexander. Alexander Shelbourne. Same as my father before me.”

He could not be sure she heard him. On she went, dodging branches, setting a pace that gave him the feeling he chased her, and chase her he would, to set things right between them, to express in some way his gratitude, that she had allowed him to save a life instead of taking it. That she had renewed within him a lust for living.

The fair-haired child jumped up and down with ill-contained excitement as they approached, worry painting features that reminded him of Miss Foster’s: same breadth of forehead and blue eyes. Same snip of a nose.

“I stayed,” she said breathlessly, fingers worrying the chain about her neck. “Right here. Even when you slipped, just like Emma. I thought you would fall.”

“Indeed, so did I, my dear. This is Mr. Alexander, who saved me.” She turned to him at last, her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Mr. Alexander, this is Felicity.”

“Felicity Foster.” She curtsied with all the grace of a well-schooled five year old.

He bowed, eyes fixed on the flash of gold at her neck; a locket, heart-shaped.

Foster? What relation, he wondered. Val made no mention of a child, only of just such a locket, given to Penny Foster on a night of shared passion.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “You may call me Shel, as my sisters do, or Cupid, as does the whole of my regiment.”

The younger Miss Foster looked uncertainly at the elder.

“You may do as you wish, my dear,” she said.